Ovations, please! Laud and magnify my glorious name, for I have completed
something monumental! Ascribe to my mighty will, see all things I do, all important
goals achieved and work finished. And portholes, peeking at my every moment, you are
the ones who have become observers of the minutiae of my humdrum existence. Glad
tidings of great joy, blessed incarceration and control, for who can resist every single
particle that exuded from my fingertips, every action displayed. So when no one responds,
grants that iota of understanding of abeyance, then I spew my wrath upon the other peons:
how dare they ignore me, yawn at my accomplishments, shrug their shoulders at the incessantly
important actions that grace this portal every second? How come there are so few
people who do not respond the minute I publicly impose these wowing accomplishments
for your viewing pleasure? A pox on ye! A pox on your houses, and your family, and all those
inconsequential likes and tweets and posts and comments that are as golden
and holy as the holy books we so glorify on pedestals! They are all shrapnel to me,
shredded bits of matter that can be burned this afternoon. And when these things do
catch flame and disintegrate, no one really bats an eyelash.



In some arid desert city, the blare of the horn rings in some key that always
feels off-tune, so the tuner comes and works his magic, some wish
that distorts the genie’s visage, corded and taut and not the same
soporific vapor we’ve been wont to envisage: blue, Disneyish, not blaring red
and demonic, the creatures heated to furnace temperatures, fire-born and fire-bred,
an entourage of invisible imps that have poked our shoulders millions of times as we
hover our hands over that steering wheel, desiring nothing more than to tell
the asshole in front of us to hurry the hell up! I’m late! or why did you cut me off without
informing me of such first?

We are told to press hard, and you will hear the music from miles away!


I placed my nose centimeters from a zucchini that I had bought over a week ago, to see if mold had found a way within the shriveled multi-colored skin, if some microbe had rendered this to-be-fried vegetable rotten, something within writhing and burrowing for the last morsel of nutrient within the hydrator, the basest place of the refrigerator, a den for forgotten salad bags and carrot sticks, neatly rounded, peeled and orangified to nuclear potency: all this bounty faded from glory as I place peppers and scallions on a random shelf and neglect the things already bought and stored in that hydrator, my yearning for local produce and vibrant color overshadowing my frugality, my resourcefulness, my current remembrance that many people in the world — nay, many people in this same city — cannot appreciate the variety, cannot enjoy the freshness of the greenery that I have allowed through my threshold and left forgotten in the mildewed corners of a brown box in that cold, cold place.


There’s a megaphoned warning, some language
that has left my mental repository, as I lean against the cool
concrete pole supporting the front porch, the unkempt front
gate squeaking and sometimes slamming shut from the gales
out west — the shuddering clouds bulge earthward and the
warning roars again, a siren that bears no visual approbation
as the trees’ new leaves possess the weakness of late October
cold-weather injections, diluting the chlorophyll and painting
each arm diseased and dry. I don’t move, wind whipping the hair
I have yet to shear and my notebook askew, pages flapping,
yearning to separate from the binding, as if being carefree and lightweight
within this tornado would be better than tightly bound, safe, contained.


This flicker in midair mimics the dancing candlelight
in ancient, wheezing mansions, walls wooden, the knobs
in each board swirling and reshaping their paths almost like the route
that flicker took, airborne it flies erratic, like some indecisive gnat
the mosquito inching to the blue neon hums, intoxicating brightness,

it lures us, makes us stop driving along the side streets, guessing the reason
for this phenomenon arcing far into the unknown blackness at a snail’s pace and
soon becomes a fleck, an atom, a thing unseen but imprinted on our memories
for hours and days and weeks and months.


Blue paint, the whole ruin of
unadulterated clouds that ripple
in the wind. They are the fluff that we heave upwards,
the foam from our lattes.


Swirls and commotion placate the cerebral curvatures that
lace my memory, as the pathways form a maze too intricate
for the minotaur, halved in form as bifurcated loyalties,
the bindings of ancient books that crack as you open them.

The drops of water are like daggers against metal
awnings, warnings that press a prime coat around
both of my temples, circles identical to targets for the
miscreant archers across the street, the voyeurs to our parties.


That moment when you have two minutes
before the stroke of midnight and your
heart races because no poetry has escaped
your pen or your fingers as they type
vigorously across the keys

to my heart.


Evergreen forest diorama from second grade
lost glued-on confetti dipped in tempura,
as I picked up the moldy shoebox with one cupped hand,
seashells rattling like dice in a velvet cup before they’re flung against the walls
wishing for them to land on the proper end, facing up like fish gulping for air,
like stargazers on a knoll at midnight,
sifting through the clouds for Lyra
to the left Pisces, angling for the
fisherman that’s hidden among the pipe-cleaner trees.